


stop the world, I wanna get off with you

by soniclipstick (veriscence)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angry Clint Barton, Angry Sex, Bottom Clint, Clint Needs a Hug, Confessions, Drunk Sex, M/M, Phil Needs a Hug, Post Season 01, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Where is Clint 2k14?, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 09:11:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2304398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veriscence/pseuds/soniclipstick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Clint wanted for his birthday was a nap. And maybe some mind blowing sex, but he would have settled for a nap.</p><p>
  <strong> Edit: With artwork now. </strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	stop the world, I wanna get off with you

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to Tayefeth, who beta'd this for me. She took a piece of writing that was acceptable at best and turned it into something that I'm truly proud of. You've made a better writer of me, that's for sure!

"No, absolutely not." Clint considers throwing the needle in his hand in Tony's direction, but ultimately decides against it. Clint's in his private quarters, though he's come to realize that Tony Stark does not in any shape or form understand the meaning of the term 'private' or variants thereupon. Of course, neither does Natasha but she's Natasha and Clint can forgive that. Especially since she's helping him sew up the holes and tears in his wardrobe. Hence the aforementioned needle.

"But it's your first time as an Avenger. We can't do it for Steve and Bruce, then just ignore you. That's not how this shit works, bird brain," Tony says as he moves from his place by the door towards the current mess that is Clint's living room. Clothes are strewn all over the place; there is a shoe on top of the television. Okay, he can explain that.

He's just not going to. Deal with it.

"Are you deaf, shellhead? I said no." He tosses a sock into the finished pile and accepts a t-shirt with hole in the right sleeve from Nat before continuing with the same thread. He's only got purple thread which is fine because purple is awesome. Also, most of his clothes are purple anyway, and if not, in dire need of purple. It's a thing.

"Stark doesn't know the meaning of that word." Natasha is sprawled out of his sofa with a t-shirt in her hand (She likes to pretend she's actually helping, while in reality, she spends all her free time judging his style choices. But that's Natasha and he loves her so that's also a thing that happens).

Tony raises a single eyebrow in her direction. "Well _excuse_ me if I take it upon myself to do the job that Clint's best friend should actually be doing. I'm only trying to give Clint what he deserves."

"You want a party because we haven't had one in three weeks," Nat answers. "And I'm deciding to be on your side not because your embarrassing attempt at manipulation is working, but because I bought Clint a suit he really needs to try on."

"But-"

Clint never gets the chance to finish his sentence, as Tony pulls out a StarkTab from behind his back and shoves it in Natasha's direction. "These are my ideas so far."

*******

It's not like Clint really wants an 'actual, proper, birthday party', though. All he wants for his birthday is a nap. And maybe some mind blowing sex, but he'll settle for a nap. Unfortunately for him, he lives at Avengers Tower now, and naps are regularly interrupted by aliens, magical beings and every once in a while, Hulk tantrums.

Living in Avengers Tower also comes with a hidden clause that no one ever fucking warns about: Tony Stark tends to get away with whatever the fuck he wants.

Which is why Clint finds himself two weeks later hiding in the corner of one of Tony's numerous halls on floor 32, unsure of what he’s supposed to do at these 'birthday party' things. The only actual birthday party he properly remembers is his 21st, when Barney had taken him out to a strip club. He doesn’t think that disaster can be compared to the current situation without much embarrassment. (As a side note, Clint would like to make it very clear that there was nothing wrong with Candy. It's not his fault he doesn't find boobs all that hot. They are lovely of course, at least judging by Nat's, they're just not for Clint).

Of course, he had been to Steve's birthday party, but that's different. Steve had asked for a small event. And unlike Clint, when Steve asks for something, people tend to listen because he so rarely asks for things for himself. On the other hand, Tony and Steve are better friends than Clint and -well, anybody but Nat really- so it's not a surprise that Tony actually knows what Steve wants for his birth. At least Tony's plans of flying to Hawaii had been sent to an early grave by a determined Pepper. No one argues with Pepper Potts. That's another thing they'd conveniently forgotten to tell Clint before he'd moved in.

Unfortunately, the illustrious Pepper Potts has spent the last two months in Miami, giving Tony the chance to try out his Mad Skillz™ (it's been registered, Clint's got the phone call recording from Matt Murdock to prove it) at event planning. Clint's not judging, but this feels more like one of those team gala things that the Avengers ended up having to go to for publicity reasons.

Thor and Jane are dancing as usual; the only reason Clint isn't terrified for Jane's life is because he's seen Thor do this a hundred times without fail. Tony's showing off his newest learning bot, a cute little organiser aptly named P.E.P.P.E.R. Bruce and Reed Richards (who- what the hell even- Clint hates that guy-who invited him?) are deep in conversation. Sue looks bored, but when she catches Clint looking she grants him a genuine smile. He smiles automatically back before turning his attention to Natasha.

Natasha is swing dancing with Bucky while Steve watches on in amusement. Bucky looks happy. Those early days, when Sam had arrived at Avengers Tower while somehow supporting Steve _and_ Bucky, both bloody and broken, had been difficult. Bucky would go from completely himself, to the Winter Soldier, to even a blank slate without a moment's notice. In Clint's opinion, Sam's the best thing to ever happen to Avengers Tower. He's also currently attempting to dump a bucket of ice water on his head as Maria records him on her phone, so Clint's not going anywhere near him for the night. Sam Wilson has the superhuman capability to make _anyone,_ do _anything_. Clint's bored and uncomfortable already; the last thing he needs is a bucket of ice water on his head for whatever reason.

Now, Clint. Clint is still in that corner, dressed in a nice shirt and jeans that Natasha says make his ass look great. He doesn't see the difference, but he trusts Natasha. It's not like he has anyone to show off for, but he's learned over the years not to argue with Nat.

Then there's a stage, complete with a real DJ and everything. Waiters are serving platters with food that Clint doesn't recognize, wouldn't ever be able to name. Clint sticks with alcohol for now, he doesn't think he'll be able to keep anything else down.

It’s all a bit too much.

Clint likes being up high and far, far away and right now, it feels like he’s going to choke on so many people breathing in the same air as him.

Unlike Steve and the team in Washington, Clint had been under deep cover in Madripoor. Then SHIELD had fallen, and along with it all his aliases. He still doesn’t know how he’d scraped his way out of that failed extraction. The bullet wound in his shoulder had become infected by the time he’d reached the Tower. He doesn't remember most of what happened, only Tony and Bruce, and Pepper reading to him. It's been almost a year since he'd stopped being a SHIELD agent.

Almost a year since all the secrets of SHIELD had been made public.

Almost a year since the Avengers had learned that Agent Phil Coulson wasn't lying in the grave that Clint had taken to making weekly visits to after the Chitauri attack whenever he wasn't on a mission.

But he’s not going to think about that. Not when Natasha is coming over to him and dragging him by the wrist towards the gigantic cake on the other side of the hall. He's not going to think about the fact that he has no idea where Coulson and his team are, or about how angry he is that Coulson could lie to ~~him-~~ _them_ like that.

Everyone surrounds him and starts singing 'Happy Birthday'. Natasha nudges him when the time is right to blow out the candles, then feeds him the first bite. Oreo cheesecake. Tony got that right, so he must have listened to Natasha's input a little bit at least. By now he's had quite a few beers and some whiskey, so he's feeling rather queasy, but the cheesecake thankfully decides it would rather stay inside of him for now. The wait staff take the cake away to slice and serve it later.

The guest are still staring at him expectantly. He turns to Natasha and confusion and she subtly nods to her right, lips quirking. He follows her gesture and sees- _oh_. Right. Presents. He has presents now. What's he supposed to do with presents again? Natasha elbows him and leans forward to whisper into his ear, "Just say thank you and smile, even if you don't like it." Clint nods and then shrugs at the rest of them in apology before picking up the first gift. Clint bursts out into laughter at a terribly wrapped, lumpy looking package. Natasha elbows him harder.

"I was trying to make it from the heart, you asshole," she says. He kisses her cheek and rips open the package. The guests coo at the gesture but Clint doesn't care. The ones who need to know, know the truth. Who cares what the rest of them think? They're Tony's friends, not Clint's.

Natasha has made him a brand new cozy for his bow, this time in an unrepentant shade of orange. There is a delicate wooden box with different kinds of custom tea from Bruce. The fire truck red envelope contains plane tickets for two to Hawaii ( _what_ exactly is Tony's deal with Hawaii?) signed by both Tony and Pepper. Someone (Jane) had convinced Thor not to present Clint with a bloody bilgesnipe's head (for which the general population of Avengers Tower's floor 31, as well as most of Jotunheim is very relieved, thank you very much). Instead, he receives a gorgeous golden bow with Asgardian protection runes. Clint's very proud of the fact that he doesn't cry when he carefully removes the newspaper wrapping from Steve's present to find a framed drawing of Clint crouching on the roof of a building, arrows in mid flight towards a target that is out of view. Then there are books because Charles Xavier loves books and Erik Lehnsherr is the most whipped 78 year old that Clint has ever met. He accepts them graciously because a) the Professor gives great gifts, it's a side effect of telepathy, and b) Magneto scares the shit out of him. Just because the guy decided to finally stop after 60 plus years of fighting and give in to the sexual tension already (and _eww_ old people sex) didn't mean that Clint wasn't wary of- _aaaand_ Clint's going to stop that line of thought there because the look that Professor X is giving him right now is a mix between horrified and amused.

The others present him with a collection of things he does and doesn’t need, and he thanks them all because apparently that’s what you do (Natasha keeps elbowing him because he keeps forgetting; he's sure his side is going to be black and blue by tomorrow).

Soon, there's only a single package left, a dark aubergine box without a card or tag attached to it. Nestled within tissue paper is a gorgeous bayonet, identical to the one he had lost in Sydney on a mission six years ago. Upon closer inspection, he realizes it _is_ that exact bayonet, and he looks to Natasha helplessly. She shakes her head and he grasps with sudden clarity exactly who the gift is from. The others look confused but thankfully the music picks up. Thor swings Jane onto the dance floor and then the party takes off for a second time.

The cheesecake begins to churn in his stomach. He can’t breathe, there’s no air. The others thankfully don’t take notice when he escapes, bayonet in hand, through the balcony up to his floor. It is the top floor of the tower, slightly smaller than the others, but making up for it in freedom.

His fingers are itching so he makes his way to his equipment room and pulls out the rifle he hasn’t used in years, stubbornly ignoring the familiar flood of memories. The Tac-50 is in dire need of a clean, so he starts disassembling it on the table. He’s halfway through stock treatment when there’s a knock at the door.

“Nat, I kind of want-

“Natasha is still downstairs.”

Clint takes in a shaky breath, then steels himself. No matter how badly he wants to hide away, he needs to see Coulson more. That doesn’t mean Coulson needs to see the mess Clint is. “Come in.”

Fuck, he’s angry. Okay, he has known that SHIELD worked like this for years, but he’d been stupid and he'd gone and expected more from Coulson. Just because Coulson had brought him into SHIELD, and Coulson had kept him safe over the years. Just because Coulson had never lied to him. Until now. It may be irrational for a spy to be angry about someone doing their job, but it’s moments like these that remind him that Nat’s the real spy. He's just a good shot. He focuses on putting the rifle back in its case, bayonet finally where it belongs, and stands up, heading towards the case’s designated location. He takes a moment to stare at the shelf in front of him, waiting until he has a sure grip on his anger.

 _Come on, Barton_ , he berates himself, _you’re thirty six fucking years old now, learn to finally be an adult_. He turns around and looks at Coulson, and almost doesn’t recognize the man in front of him.

The Coulson he'd known had always been impeccably well-dressed and put together, no matter what the situation. Coulson had always been the steady one, the anchor that Clint could hold onto in any storm. But this man standing in front of him sports a five o’clock shadow, a shirt with the top two buttons unbuttoned and sleeves folded up to his elbows, and bags under his eyes that look semi-permanent. Clint wonders what the stubble would feel like, and how many more buttons he would have to unbutton before he could see the scar from Loki's sceptre. He's seen the security video so many times Clint could probably trace the line with his eyes closed. It doesn't matter anyway. Clint clears his head and focuses on Coulson again. He has one hip resting on the table. "I believe birthday wishes are in order."

“Why are you here?” Clint demands, arms crossing over his chest.

“We were in Sydney a month ago, I came across the knife by coincidence and figured it deserved to be returned to its rightful owner.” Clint doesn’t know how Coulson can be so calm. He should be used to Coulson's ability to be nonchalant in the face of anything, but he hasn’t seen the man in a couple of years. Some things are easy to forget. “Besides, I think a visit was overdue, don’t you?”

Clint doesn’t realise what he’s done until Coulson is reeling backwards from the punch. It takes him yet another moment to realise that they’re not in the middle of an earthquake, no, he’s the one that’s shaking.

“I deserved that," Coulson says, wiping blood from his nose. "I should have come earlier.”

“You should never have lied in the first place.” Clint tells him as he strides past Coulson and into the kitchen. He needs a drink, badly.

“I trusted the system, I trusted Nick,” Coulson follows him in, grabbing a paper towel on the way.

“Well, the system doesn’t exist anymore and Fury’s underground so that worked out well, don’t you think?” He pours himself three fingers of whiskey and then opens the freezer to grab a cold pack, throwing it in Coulson’s general direction. He sees Coulson catch it out of the corner of his eye as he gulps his drink down, none too elegantly before himself some more. He needs to be drunk _now._ He’s not an angry drunk like his father oh no, he’s not a mean drunk. But if he doesn’t get some more alcohol in his veins, he’s going to punch Coulson again. Or kiss him. He doesn’t know.

“Thank you,” Coulson takes a moment to sit on the breakfast bar and tilts his head up, pinching his nose at the same time while holding the cold pack to his cheeks. “Just because SHIELD doesn’t exist doesn’t mean clean up isn't needed. HYDRA is out there."

“I don’t know when defeating HYDRA became your sole responsibility," Clint spits out before he can stop himself. Coulson fixes him with a look that says he should know better. And he does. SHIELD had always been Coulson's. More than it had even been Fury's or Maria's. They were able to walk away, but the Coulson that Clint had known never would have. Then again, he's beginning to doubt whether he ever knew Coulson.

Clint guzzles the whiskey down again, not minding the burn in his throat, and pours himself another three fingers, but Coulson leans forwards and takes the glass, downing the drink in a single go. Clint takes the glass back and pours some more. This won’t end well, Clint knows, but what the hell. It’s his birthday. He’s allowed to get stupid drunk on his birthday. “Well, you did your part. Obligatory visit’s over. You can leave now. I know you how bad you want to.”

“If that were the case, I never would have come in the first place,” Coulson says. He places the cold pack on his table and looks at Clint, “Do you want me to leave?”

Does he? Clint doesn’t know. He wants things to be the way they used to be. When SHIELD existed and Strike Team Delta spent his birthdays watching Hitchcock movies in Coulson’s apartment. But SHIELD is gone and Coulson’s apartment was sold off years ago. Clint would know, he was the one tasked with selling it. Coulson had left everything to him. Clint can't keep the memories from popping up in his head: finding out from the lawyers, going there alone before Natasha came home from her mission, crying himself to sleep in Coulson's bed. Oh there's that urge again, to do something violent. He needs more booze, stat.

Coulson stands up, shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. I didn't come here to ruin your evening, Clint. I'll leave.”

The anger flares again, he has his answer as fire begins spreading from the bottom of his belly until he can feel it in his toes. “And what, leave me alone again? Don’t you fucking dare,” he snarls and moves without thinking towards Coulson, fist coming up again.

Except instead of punching Coulson, Clint finds himself unclenching his fist and grabbing Coulson by the shoulder, pushing himself forward until he was up against the other man's chest. The resulting imbalance sends them crashing into the kitchen island, but Clint doesn’t care. Coulson’s leaving again and he’s not going to lose this final chance.

It’s possible the alcohol isn’t doing its damn job.

Clint has thought of a hundred ways of doing this, a hundred ways to kiss Coulson over the years. In his fantasies, they would be on the couch watching television and they would turn to each other, lips meeting gently for the very first time. Other times he would imagine it being after a particularly fucked up mission. Coulson would find Clint in medical and yell at him for being reckless again and then kiss him, all tongue and teeth. More often, the daydream consisted of Clint finally working up the courage to ask him out for a proper date and Coulson inviting him in for a drink. They’d kiss at the front door, fumbling for keys and making it to bed with only half their clothes.

Reality isn’t that sweet, it’s better. And so much worse.

Their lips crash and Clint crowds Coulson, pulling at his hair and biting his split lower lip. Coulson tastes like whiskey and blood, like desperation and need and life. It takes Coulson a moment to respond, but a hesitant hand comes up to rest on his chest, and Coulson opens his mouth to let Clint have complete reign over him. They're lined up until Clint doesn’t know where he begins and ends.

But this isn’t about Clint wanting to lazily kiss Phil Coulson in bed early in the morning before they have to go to work. This is about desire and anger and closure. Except Coulson, he's so hard to read, accepting whatever Clint dishes out but never taking anything; it makes Clint see red again. "Touch me, damn it." He demands against Coulson's mouth. And then adept fingers sneak under his shirt to pinch his nipple mercilessly, and Clint is hit with the all consuming need to suck a particularly vicious hickey above Coulson’s collar. He’s not going to be able to hide that one under any suit, that’s for sure. They separate for a moment to pull off Clint’s shirt and Coulson turns them around, pushing Clint none too gently up onto the kitchen island. The bottle of whiskey shatters, falling onto the ground along with the toaster and other shit Clint doesn’t care about because that’s when Phil latches his unforgiving mouth onto Clint’s nipple. _Finally_. It feels like someone’s pouring lava onto his skin, and it’s so magnificent Clint wouldn’t mind burning to ash and dust as long as he can feel like this for one more second.

This is _his_ Phil. This is the Phil he'd dreamt of, the Phil he'd been allowed to see a few glimpses of during their time together at SHIELD. This is the Phil he'd been so lucky to see in his apartment on those rare days Coulson had been allowed to go home early, pizza in hand and less than an inch of space between them on the sofa.

Phil is efficient, and before he knows it, Clint is sitting on the kitchen island naked from the waist down. He hisses at the sudden cold against his cock and promptly loses touch with reality as Phil leans in swirl his tongue around Clint's nipple again. When his eyes refocus, he finds Phil staring at him in satisfaction, eyes running up and down his body. Clint pulls Phil up to kiss him again, wrapping his legs around Phil's waist, biting into his collarbone. His fingers press insistently against the side of Phil's neck, it’s going to leave a mark. _That’s the plan_ , Clint decides. Coulson may abandon him again after all of this is over, but he’s not going to forget Clint very soon.

Fortunately for Clint, Phil seems to be more than fine with the sentiment because he pants at the bite and thrusts forward, the soft wool of his slacks sinful against Clint's hard cock. Clint looks down between them and sees the slacks now stained with precome. The fight is over before it begins, he can't not do it, he _has to_ bring his other hand up to Phil's face, run a thumb along his cheek, and deliver another biting kiss. Phil's split lip is bleeding by now and Clint presses his tongue against the tender skin in apology. The blood tastes like iron and Clint swears at the taste of it, running his hands down Phil's back and untucking the shirt from the pants. He wants to touch warm skin and he needs Phil to fuck him already, but Phil’s wearing far too many clothes. Clint brings his hands up to his chest and pushes him, keeping him near only with the legs wrapped around Phil’s waist. With a single pull, he rips the shirt down the front. Buttons fly off in every direction but he doesn't care because right now, he's looking at a scar. It's not exactly how Clint had imagined it, but it's pretty damn close. Now Clint can't stop staring, can't stop the sudden stinging in his eyes.

“Stop it,” Phil orders him and pulls off the shirt and leans back in aligning their chests. The filthy open mouthed kiss is an obvious distraction technique, but Clint has to admit, it's working. Clint very tries not to think about the feel of Phil’s soft chest hair against his own and how it rubs against his sensitive nipples, and instead pulls away to suck another purple bruise onto Phil’s collarbone. He looks up at Phil to gauge his reaction; Phil's head is thrown back and his eyes are shut, teeth biting into his battered lower lip. He presses a palm against Phil’s erection just to see what it does to him and isn’t disappointed when Phil gasps and retaliates by pressing against him, belt buckle and all.

“Fuck, Phil,” Clint gasps and tightens his legs around Phil, banging his head against the hanging light fixture behind him.

Phil growls, his nails scratching a multitude of lines down Clint's back. "Say it, Clint. My name. Say it again."

"Fuck!" Clint pants at the way his name sounds coming from Phil's mouth, the sting in his back is nothing. _Clint_. With that ever familiar emphasis on the sharp t. He wants to hear it again. "Fuck me already, Phil!"

"Bed." Phil growls, and grasps him by the thighs before lifting him up. Clint has to backtrack, because Coulson might look exhausted, but he’s still strong as fuck. Before he knows it, they're in his bedroom, with Clint spread out on his back with his legs open in invitation for Phil.

Phil takes a moment to just look, and while Clint wants to give him a view he'll never forget, the sudden silence is giving his brain time to catch up with his body; and regret is not a feeling he wants in the here and now. Clint is the king of fuck ups, but he doesn't need to regret his messes right while they're happening. So instead of waiting for Phil, he turns over to the night table and fishes out lube and a condom from the drawer before pouring a generous amount of lube to coat his fingers. He manages to get one finger inside himself, inadvertently gasping, _“Phil,”_ before Phil removes the rest of his clothes and joins him on the bed, flipping Clint over. Clint grabs the wooden bed frame for support and Phil spreads his cheeks apart with his hand. Clint can't keep the truly embarrassing sounds coming out of his mouth as Phil runs his tongue over him once before sucking a bruise onto the sensitive skin of Clint's ass. Clint pushes back.

More.

He needs more.

Phil doesn't seem to catch onto the sentiment because he grabs Clint by the hips and holds him in place. Clint nearly loses his grip on the bed frame as Phil reaches around and wraps sure fingers around his length, tugging lazily. "Fuu- Phil- dammit," Clint forces out, "Just fuck me already!"

Phil seems to finally agree because the next thing Clint feels is the cold wet splash of lube directly onto his hole. Phil pushes two blunt fingers into Clint and curls them. Clint can’t do this, it’s too good. “Fuck, Phil. Fuck fuck fuck...”

He doesn’t know any words other than fuck and Phil and please. Then he doesn't know any words but one, _Phil,_ so he repeats it like a mantra. All he knows is that that single syllable makes Phil move his fingers faster, and twist them inside of him in a way that is at once delicious and agonising. Then oh- _fuck_. Clint has to screams his name out this time as Phil adds another finger while still working Clint's cock. It's too much and too little at the same time, he’s going to lose his shit. He doesn’t want fingers, he wants Phil damn it.

Phil doesn’t say anything, just pushes him up against the bed frame until he’s on his knees and lines himself up behind him. There’s a rustling sound as the condom wrapper is ripped open and a painful moments’ pause before Phil wraps an arm around his belly and slams into him, sealing them together along with simultaneous moans of satisfaction. Phil waits, letting Clint get used to his girth. Any other time, in any other situation, Clint thinks he would have been grateful and touched that Phil was waiting on him. Right now, all he knows and wants is for Phil to fucking move already. He's raw and uncomfortably stretched out but then, that's what he'd asked for. Clint moves forward, pulling himself away slowly before slamming back onto Phil and that's when the dam breaks. Phil finally lets go of whatever restraint had been holding him back and slams into Clint, pulling out quickly before slamming back into him, again and again and again. Clint in turn tightens his grip on the bed frame, forearms along the top rail for support as each thrust sends him moving forward without control. The only thing keep him from slamming chest first into the bed rail is Phil's arm around his chest persistently pulling him back to him every time. That is, until Phil stops again, remaining inside of him while pulling his legs apart, coming closer, his legs fitting perfectly in the space between Clint's own. Clint whines and squeezes in retaliation, but Phil simply braces his hands on Clint’s forearms, before settling them into a punishing pace that has Clint barely able to catch his breath as Phil hits his prostate every single fucking time.

Clint has no control left, neither of his voice nor his body. All he can do is groan in turn with every delicious thrust, which makes Phil lean forward and leave bruising kisses at his neck, his shoulders. He thinks he hears someone sobbing out Phil’s name, and then realizes that it’s his own voice.

He wonders how Phil can be so silent when Clint can't stop the verbal diarrhoea he's experiencing, but that's when it occurs to Clint why. What Clint wants and what Phil wants are vastly different things. Phil will fuck him well and good and then Coulson will leave because Director Coulson has more important things to do. Clint will take this and then weep because he wants so much more and he won't have the strength to tell himself that it's not true anymore. But this is what he's getting; this is it. A stray thought hits him that chases away all other thoughts.

_I want to see him come._

Then it's too late. He can't bury that thought or burn it out of his head because there it is, repeating itself, weaving it's meaning into every gasp and moan, into every _Phil_ that escapes his mouth. _I want to see him come._ All arguments fail. _You're supposed to forget!_ He screams but the thought is drowned out. _He's the one who has to remember, not you!_ But there are lips on his neck and he wants them on his lips, there are arms along his arms and he wants them around _him._ He wants to see how dark Phil's eyes are, feel the heat of his breath against his mouth. This is a bad idea, it's the worst of all his bad ideas but he can't keep it inside anymore. Even if it kills him later, he wants to see Phil. So he chokes out, “Wait,” and turns himself around, inadvertently pulling himself off while reaching forward to lick a stripe down Phil’s neck. “Like this,” he says, and opens his legs up, holding them spread out in a V.

Phil’s eyes are so dark that there’s barely anything but pupil visible. He licks his lips before bracing himself on his knees, hands firm on Clint’s thighs, hard enough to bruise before thrusting in again, hitting him at another angle that’s nearly unbearable it's so good. Clint brings his hands up to his ankles and just takes it, no longer caring that he’s mad as hell because damn it this is just so fucking good. Phil’s flushed all the way down his chest, skin pink and it’s absolutely breathtaking. Clint ignores the scar and concentrates on his face instead. Phil's eyes are closed. Clint could count the eyelashes if he wants to, and oh, does he want.

Phil slams into him again, letting go of his legs and Clint automatically wraps himself around Phil because this is it. It’s not like _Coulson_ can stay, he might as well know, and pulls Phil down, kissing him with everything he’s got, arms wrapped tightly around him. The friction between the two of them is enough to make Clint see galaxies and star clusters.

Phil rides him through the orgasm, his own hands tangled in Clint’s hair. There are no words, none. Phil is so beautiful as he thrusts in, his eyes wild and focused on Clint's face. The silence finally breaks as Phil comes with a shattered cry and a brutal bite into the junction between Clint's neck and shoulder. Clint thinks he may have drawn blood. Clint hates how much he wants it to have.

They collapse onto the bed together, foreheads touching. Clint can't make himself look away as Phil shakes through his orgasm, thrusting unevenly into Clint. Clint keeps his legs locked around Phil, digs his heels into his back and his arms into Phil's shoulders. Soon, Phil isn't hard enough to stay inside of him and Clint forces himself to let his legs loosen and come to rest at Phil's sides. As expected, Phil rolls away from him, taking in deep shuddering breaths, leaving Clint with a fluttering hole inside of him that's trying frantically to hold tight around something that's already gone. Clint inhales in surprise when he finally comes to rest with a single arm sprawled over Clint's come covered stomach, thumb rubbing in circles over it.

“Happy birthday,” Phil breathes out, and Clint kind of wants to punch him again, but his heart aches too much to even look at Phil right now.

“Oh fuck you,” he says instead, as Phil rolls out of bed. He's leaving him. Again.

“Next time,” Phil tells him and Clint's heart skips a beat. Clint looks at the ceiling lights and repeats those words in his mind as Phil walks away. _Next time._ Huh. He could live with that, he thinks. Be Phil’s fuck buddy for whenever the secret not-SHIELD team makes it to New York City. Right?

Who’s he kidding, no he can’t. He’s going to punch someone again. Or get drunk. Maybe if he gets drunk enough, he'll forget this ever happened.

Worst birthday ever.

Clint presses his palms against his eyes, commanding the tears not to fall. Clint Barton is the self-titled King of Mistakes. But he's also an Avenger and he does have enough self respect not to cry over some guy who he really, really, really shouldn't have slept with, especially since Clint knew from the beginning that Coulson would never have stayed.

The mattress shifts and there's suddenly something warm on his stomach. He opens his eyes to find Phil with a worried look on his face, wiping his stomach down gently. Mortified at what Phil's seen, Clint turns to his side to face away. _You're not going to have casual sex with him,_ Clint tells himself, _no matter what he says or does._

But Phil seems to have taken that to mean better access to his backside because he wipes down there as well. Phil slows his ministration, checking now for any damage. Clint ass flutters again, still missing Phil inside of him. Clint's overcome by longing. He's so angry but also so alone and for a moment he thinks of begging Phil to stay.

Clint, you dummy. Get out. Get away. This can't happen. He's ruined for life now, why make it even worse by repeating the same mistake again and again?

“I’m fine,” he tells Phil, scrambling out of bed to get fresh clothes. He pulls on some underwear and turns around to find Phil still naked and sitting up against the bed frame. The bruises are beginning to bloom and Clint feels a surge of satisfaction at the fact that he’s going to look at them for the next week and end up thinking of Clint. Wherever he is around the world that is.

“Barton. Talk to me.” Coulson says. It's Coulson again and Clint wants to weep.

“I'm good. Just wondering what the hell you're still doing here.” Clint says, throwing him the slacks which were on the floor. Coulson catches the pants and drops them on the bed. Phil Coulson is a password protected computer; Clint can't read anything off of him.

“Clint-”

But Clint doesn't want to hear any answers or excuses. Coulson had left him. Coulson had come back and had failed to provide any reason or rhyme for the betrayal. Any weakness that Clint had felt had to have been from the sex, but he can think clearly now and he's still angry. Clint had trusted Coulson and he'd repaid that trust with lies and deceit. It had hurt. He can't have Phil show up whenever he was in need of a good fuck and then leave whenever Coulson felt like it. And now his blood is boiling again. “Don’t you have a super-secret non-organization to run or something? Don’t let me keep you.” Clint snaps.

Phil tilts his head and his eyes widen in understanding. Clint knows he’s said too much, just like he knows he felt too much before, but what the hell, it’s not like they’re going to see each other all that much after this anyways. Clint won't let him in again.

“What if I wanted you to keep me?” Phil sounds incredibly calm, but his fingers are twitching for a gun, so Clint knows how scared he is. Oddly, it's a relief to see something, to be able to finally read something off of him.

Then his mind catches up to what _Phil just said_.

Clint freezes. What. "What are you saying?" He demands despite every cell in his body telling him to kick the other man out of his apartment already.

“Clint, I-" He looks frustrated, as if he's searching for the right words and failing. "I'm saying... Oh God this was a mistake." The words hit Clint like ice cold water. Phil gets out of bed, reaching with his hands towards Clint but Clint walks backwards. He needs space, he needs to be away and higher and _oh God_ , why does this hurt so much? Now he's up against the wall and there's nowhere to go. He takes a split second to considering attacking Phil and leaving but he's a foot away and naked. Not that he'd defenceless or anything but Clint can't attack the other man like that.

A mistake. Clint knew it from the beginning but- "No, Clint please. Please. Clint." Phil's eyes are wild, his hands still outstretched towards Clint.

"Why are you still here if it was such a big mistake? Why don't you leave me already?" He shouts so loud his voice breaks.

"Because I barely survived leaving you the first time." Phil says, voice shaky. "I just wanted to see you again."

“Fuck you, I was here the whole fucking time. Where were you?" He demands. "When SHIELD went down, where were you?” And now he's so angry he can't see straight. “Where the fuck were you then? Or the year before that? I was here! I was right here!”

“I had to make things right first. My team needed me.”

“And I didn’t.”

“You didn’t. You had the Avengers, you were okay. I came back from the dead and you didn't need me. Then when SHIELD fell, Tony got you by the time you made it back and...” Coulson sighs. “I know you don’t need me. I know I’ve made mistakes. But things are getting better and I haven’t stopped wanting to be with you after all this time. Quite frankly, I don't think I ever will. No matter how hard I try, I can't move on. So I thought I’d try, if nothing else.” Phil - because it'll always be Phil now- it can't be just Coulson ever again- brings a hand up to his face. "But not like this. I wanted to make things right first..."

Clint has to lock his knees so he doesn't end up in a puddle on the ground, but he shakes anyway and has to grab Phil by the shoulder for support.

Phil brings his hand up to Clint's chest, ghost his palm over Clint's heart. "I'll take what you can give me, Clint. Whatever you're willing to give me."

The anger drains out of him. The fire is still there, but it’s a different sort of flame, hopefulness rather than bleakness, burning a comforting red rather than the white hotness of a few minutes ago.

"I can't do casual sex, Phil," Clint confesses, hands coming up from Phil's shoulders to cup his face.

"Good," Phil replies. "Neither can I." And then Phil leans in carefully (he's always understood that Clint needed his space) and places a tender kiss on his lips. Fingers come up to caress his jaw and Clint’s _gone_. He melts against him, knees finally giving in. But Phil catches him and somehow they settle in bed, loosely entangled in each other. Clint doesn't know what this will end up meaning, only that Phil's running fingers through the hair at the nape of Clint's neck, and it makes him feel safe and cared for in a way he's never felt in his life before. Phil's also whispering three life-changing words again and again, but Clint's not sure he's ready to believe him yet.

They have a long way to go.

“You left me, and I’m still angry,” Clint mumbles as sleep pulls him under.

“I know. I'm so sorry.”

“We'll work through it.”

“Yes, we will.”

It’s Clint’s birthday. He never wanted a party. All he wanted was a nap and some mind blowing sex. He got something worse. But so much better.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who wants a nice mobi file with a cover and everything, it'll be up on my tumblr soon, I'm soniclipstick. Check out my tumblr anyways, we can fangirl/boy! 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading this, I appreciate you guys more than anything!


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